Some Kind of Wonderful
by benedictcumberbatchseyebrows
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler are both seventeen years old. They both attend the same school. The years of not noticing one another breaks, and they are amazed. What will happen as they grow closer?
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, both seventeen, both attend Sweyne secondary school.

They both know each other on a not-too personal level and rarely talk. Whilst Irene has been at Sweyne since the start of year seven, Sherlock joined mid-way through year nine. He had been doing well at his previous school (he didn't have many friends, some would say none, but not that it mattered to Sherlock), but he, his mother, and elder brother, Mycroft, had moved away from their childhood home in Sussex after their father's death. His mother could not stand living there any longer since his father had killed himself in their bedroom, because of a decade-long battle with depression.

Either way Sherlock settled in without too much trouble. They were now in London, a place Sherlock had longed to visit since he was a little boy.

Of course, being 'the new kid' was never easy. There were the usual petty, meaningless comments. "Gay!" Being the main one.

It didn't affect him as much as people thought, because he felt better knowing that their intelligence is too low to get a good job to support themselves. Sometimes, when he couldn't control himself, he retaliated with a hurtful true comment he had deduced about the student in order to humiliate them in front of the class.

At school, Sherlock enjoyed science thoroughly. In his previous school the work was too easy and dull, yet at Sweyne, his science teacher (Mrs Hooper, who was married to Mr Lestrade but decided to keep her surname), had taken a shine to him and admired his intelligence. So she gave him more difficult work to do and at times severely punished other pupils who bullied him. Every teacher should have done that, but some actually agreed with their comments. They didn't say anything, but Sherlock could tell. Mrs Hooper had overheard whispered conversations at the coffee machine between teachers, and had more than once been disgusted. There had been an occasion where she almost shouted at a fellow teacher, Mr Carter, as she heard him call Sherlock a "lanky freak". She managed to control herself then, but couldn't help giving him sharp glares and, there was an angry exchange of emails between the two for a fortnight. Mr Carter left two months later. Sherlock knew it was partly down to him and Mrs Hooper, and that made him happy.

He hadn't made any 'friends' as such, but there was a boy, quite popular, and the oldest in their year called John Watson, who tolerated him. John made Sherlock laugh, and wasn't stupid, like most. Although John was nice, he had his own group of friends and didn't talk to Sherlock that regularly.

Sherlock just prefers to get on with his work and not go through the pain of socialising with anybody. Not that they would talk to him, he thought. It didn't bother him though, Sherlock had no desire to converse with his fellow students. The only person he only really gets along with is his mother, and they grew somewhat closer through his dad's death. The death that changed him. He knew his father hadn't been happy for many years, but he didn't know the cause, nor if he could have helped. He wish he'd have tried. Sometimes, he gets a crippling guilty feeling because he thinks that if he'd have put his mind to work whilst his father was alive, he could have helped him. So he made himself learn to not just see, but observe.

* * *

Irene Adler was brought up in a wealthy household. Being an only child, all of her parents' attention was focused on her, and a lot of their large amounts of money spent on luxury items for her.

Her parents fell into their financial good fortune from a mixture of their theme song business and a number of inheritances from fairly rich relatives.

Although at the age of twelve Irene began to see a local counsellor on a weekly basis for around a year and a half, to help her anxiety and low confidence. The counselling built up her confidence drastically, and she began to speak her mind, dress how she wanted, ask people out and by the time she was fifteen, boys and girls were at her feet.

But several people disliked Irene because of her sometimes brutal honesty. She did not tell people what she thought of them unless asked. As previous experiences have taught them, many people didn't enquire as to her opinion of them.

Although what somebody would think of as a bad personality trait, another would find endearing, or sexy. This particular part of her personality had attracted many people to her, male and female, even a young teaching assistant. She frequently declines the offers she gets, and the few that are accepted are only for her benefit. Such as using one of the cleverest boys in the class to guarantee a 100% on an essay. It's not as if she couldn't pass with her own knowledge, but she didn't want to put all her effort into her schoolwork.

Despite what most people thought, Irene had actually only had sex three times in her lifetime, and none of those times were to get information or to pass an exam with flying colours. The first of the times she was with another girl, and the rest were with Jim Moriarty.

Jim, according to Irene, was a prick. He was manipulative and a liar, yet, alike to Irene herself, (except more so) he was incredibly intelligent. So with him, Irene was never bored.

She wasn't still completely sure why Jim ended their relationship, but her most realistic guess was that it had just run its course. Irene wasn't overly hurt by his actions, nevertheless there was still a part of her which she still admired and possibly loved Moriarty, but she chose to ignore that side of her so it got smaller and smaller... until it finally disappeared. Then she'd be ready to properly move in with life, and thrive.

* * *

Sherlock made his way quickly across the school yard, his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead only slightly after his morning shower. There were not many people other than him at school that early, just the nerdy kids and the ones that don't like to be at home because of family problems.

Like most of the students, he dreaded tutor times before lessons. The twenty minutes in which a black cloud hovered heavily over the heads of even the teachers. They gave up forcing smiles as they realised that just aggravated the students even further.

Sherlock settled into a chair in an isolated corner of the room, looking out the window to where the flocks of joking students were flooding in through the gates.

He became lost in thought when he started thinking about the possibility to just leave. He was unhappy, and frequently fantasised about getting away from everything. Sometimes he'd escape to what he calls his "mind palace", but when he wanted to stop thinking completely, that wasn't much help.

Sherlock sighed unevenly. He folded his arms on the desk and rested his head upon them. He wasn't at all sleepy, Sherlock could go days at a time with little more than a few hours' sleep; he simply wanted to focus on focusing on nothing.

Sherlock must have succeeded, as he lost track of time. He jerked up sharply when he heard his form tutor call his name rather loudly, possibly becoming irate after calling for a number of times with no response.

"Sherlock!" The grey haired man stood by the door. There were no other students in the room. "What are you doing? It's assembly today, come on!" Sherlock gathered his bags and hurried out of the room to the assembly hall. It would already have started. Sherlock mentally chastised himself.

He clipped his name badge on and corrected his untidy uniform, before he quietly slipped through one of the double doors at the back of the huge hall.

The teacher that was giving the presentation at the front pointed at him and cried: "Sit there, now!" And with that, in synchronisation, all the three hundred, sixteen to seventeen year olds turned to dumbly stare at Sherlock. There were some childish giggles and whispers which Sherlock chose to ignore when he took the empty seat nearest to the doors. He dumped his luggage next to him whilst the teacher continued with her presentation/lecture. Not that he ever paid attention in assembly, Sherlock looked around to the people he was seated near. He wanted to try and work out some of their darkest secrets maybe just from the way their nails had been bitten down or whatever else, but he simply could not be bothered, they weren't worth the effort.

When he noticed whom he was seated next to, his thoughts changed. He instantly recognised her. This was Irene Adler.

She was in a few classes of Sherlock's, but it's not as if they really noticed one another. Sherlock had never sat next this close to her, he focused on trying to work her out.

But he couldn't. Aside from the obvious, such as a slight smudge of foundation on her shirt sleeve, (must have been in a hurry this morning) he knew nothing. She wasn't easy to see through, like everyone else.

With her bare legs crossed, expensive black skirt which was... _rather_ high up on her creamy-skinned thighs, Sherlock noted, his eyebrows twitching up minutely in rare surprise.

He got a much bigger shock when, his mind decided to let Sherlock imagine himself fucking her. Sherlock jerked in his chair with genuine shock, and repulsion. Irene looked over to him in reaction to his movements, raised her eyebrow and eyed him up and down in a look which said "weirdo". She turned back round to pretend to listen to the teacher, with a flick of her brown hair.

Once, John had shown Sherlock a video of porn on his phone one break time, and Sherlock had dry retched. No-one else around them had seen, luckily no more "gay" comments and "don't you like girls, queer?" had started.

To have his own mind conjure up those images was almost enough for him to question himself. He had always considered himself sexually uninterested, never feeling a twinge of desire for anybody. Yet, just now, he found himself thinking...

No! No, a one second fantasy does not suddenly change anything, Sherlock thought to himself.

But oh, it might.

* * *

Around the third lesson Sherlock detected the thump of a headache approaching and considered feigning a worse illness so he could go home, before deciding the effort would be too much. Instead he grudgingly continued with work he had already learnt, whilst sporting a small frown.

Meanwhile Irene was contemplating the possibility of trying to resume her relationship with Jim Moriarty, who was twenty years old and in college. Despite what she very much disliked about him, she couldn't deny he was a very observant and gratifying lover, and over the past few years had had many girlfriends. Although he was both of those things, the relationships didn't usually last longer than three weeks to a month as he lost interest in the girl he was with. The relationship he shared with Irene was his longest to date, and he didn't plan on changing that any time soon. Relationships, while sometimes positive, were too much effort and upset. The upset being always on the other side of the relationship, not Jim's. Jim Moriarty had never been dumped.

Whilst on the way to her last lesson, Irene thought about the boy seated next to her in assembly, (_Sherlock, was it?_) having a split second spasm in his chair and chuckled to herself. Now there's a fine example of a social outcast. It's a good thing she had science with him, she wanted to know more about him, to try to tap into his brain.

Sherlock was first to arrive in science, sitting himself down on a chair at the front, near Mrs Hooper's desk.

"Hello, Sherlock!" She greeted warmly.

"Ma'am," Sherlock nodded, turning his lips into a brief smile.

"We'll be doing practical work today," She told her student, standing in front of his desk. "Would you like to join, or shall I give you some written work?"Mrs Hooper always asked Sherlock his preferences for the lesson, even though she knew she probably shouldn't. Whereas, she realised Sherlock's intelligence on the subject was very high (and he had already learnt most of what was taught), and he didn't work well with others.

"Written work, please,"

By the time the rest of the class had arrived, Sherlock had already finished answering one sheet of questions.

The lesson went rather smoothly with only a few hitches: some pupils screwing about and having to stop doing experiments for the lesson, Irene being one of them. So she sat next to Sherlock to do the alternative work, and tried to chat with him.

"Alright?" She said. Sherlock gave no reply. Irene waited a few minutes. "Can you hep me with question six? Is it Nitrogen?" She already knew, but wanted to get a word out of him.

"Yes. Obviously." Sherlock murmured.

Irene wasn't listening, she was too busy being stunned by Sherlock features. He looked very different to most people. In some ways, he looked like a fully grown man, but too young for his skin. Despite his odd and somehow manly looks, there was an element of him that seemed childlike. Irene was intrigued, she wanted to know more. Know more about what was so interesting, almost... _enchanting_ about him and his character. Irene was going to find out.

She had a lightbulb moment. "Do you want to do the science project with me?"

"Nope," Was Sherlock's short answer. He continued: "I don't need a partner for the project, I can do it myself." Irene was not fazed. She raised her hand and asked Mrs Hooper a question.

"Ma'am, we need partners for the project, don't we?"

"Well, yes," She replied.

Irene smiled. "There you go. Come on, science buddy, shall we decide what we're going to make the project about?" She rested her hand on his shoulder.

"I am not your 'buddy'," Sherlock spat the word out, scowling. He plucked her hand off of him.

Somewhere, in the dark depths of his vast mind, Sherlock was tempted. He was fully aware of that tiny voice crying out amongst the booming orders which usually controlled his mind, because, nothing, no matter how subconscious, in Sherlock's brain went unnoticed. What was it about her? He could tell already that she was clever- quite a bit more than most in the classroom, possibly the whole year group. She was very pretty, and the way she was was becoming interesting to Sherlock. He began to think...

He looked round at her, directly into her eyes. She stared back, sporting a slightly amused smile.

Sherlock, after a moment, sighed a little. This wasn't giving in, this could just be another one of his own experiments. Experiment Irene Adler.

"Fine," Sherlock announced to Irene. She smiled brightly, extending her hand.

"Seal the deal?" Irene asked. Sherlock reluctantly took her hand, shaking it once. He turned back to his work. Irene grinned, and returned back to her original seat.

Sherlock made sure she was gone and then smirked to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for your reviews!

* * *

It's a grim Friday afternoon, and Sweyne school students, despite the pounding rain, celebrate the end of yet another school week. As the school gradually emptied, the hundreds of pupils dispersed in their different directions. Walking alone, Sherlock Holmes followed whilst texting his mother, unbothered by the fat rain droplets continuing to attack him.

He was texting her because he was going to the local library and wouldn't be home for a while. His mother knew that Sherlock was more than capable of looking after himself and she needn't worry too much for him. Sherlock knew that she knew he was always perfectly safe by himself, but he always texted or called her. And every time made his mother smile.

As Sherlock slipped his phone into his blazer pocket he heard light but quick footsteps approaching behind him. Suddenly, his head was protected from the rain by an umbrella and he was accompanied by none other than his new science partner, Irene Adler.

"Hello!" She smiled.

Sherlock reluctantly replied. "Hello." He noticed she was slightly struggling with holding her umbrella to cover both her and Sherlock's head, what with his tallness. He wrapped his hand around the handle to help, subsequently covering her hand somewhat. She didn't move her hand away. They walked in silence for a few moments before Irene sparked a conversation.

"So, you off home then?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "I'm going to the library,"

"Oh, right," Irene said, unsure as how to continue.

"I'm going to be starting the project, so if you want to..." Sherlock trailed off.

"Sure!" Irene told him.

The library wasn't too far away from the school, Sherlock calculated it usually took him around twelve and a half minutes to arrive there, as he had taken that journey so frequently. It took him and Irene fifteen minutes.

The library was rather small, but it still had many shelves filled with aged books, and there were a few computers in one of the corners, along with a not quite up-to-date printer.

With it being a Friday, the library was quite empty, but neither of them minded. Sherlock sat down at a computer at tapped in his login details speedily, whilst Irene pulled up a chair to sit next to him.

"What aspect of science is it about?" She asked Sherlock.

"Biology," Sherlock replied, opening the default internet browser for the library. The computer responded slowly before freezing. Sherlock sighed. "More specifically, drugs and the effects on the body they have." He turned round to face her. She studied him.

"I bet you could do all of this without research," Irene said knowingly, indicating towards to old, slow computer. Of course Sherlock knew his intelligence made him _very _capable of completing this kind of work exceptionally well, but he was still inwardly flattered. Irene, perfectly intelligent herself, detected this. "Why are you going to this bother then?"

"I don't like to do the bare minimum with only the facts I know. Obviously what I do know is more than sufficent, but I like to learn more. To add to what I already know, to go into more details of those facts, figure or find out why that happens, test theories and see with my own eyes, and to observe." Sherlock had explained with such enthusiasm he hadn't even realised. Many people knew Sherlock as a person who took a monotonous approach to most things in life. That's because they didn't really know him at all. They thought they knew of his intelligence, but they definitely had no idea of the extent of his great mind. Irene knew. She knew full well, and she wanted to explore him, explore Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock turned back to the now responding computer and began working.

* * *

A few times during the hour and a half Irene and Sherlock were in the library, they were the only ones left in there, aside from the librarian.

On occasion Irene added some of her own knowledge and gathered some factual books for her and Sherlock to flick through. It was when Irene was idly gazing at the rain through the window, that Sherlock found himself thinking about the young lady who has suddenly taken a shine on him. She was not like the others, she was clever.

Sherlock didn't want to, but he did find her attractive. He knew there was a difference between finding someone attractive and being attracted _to_ them, but Sherlock felt as if he was bordering that line. She had tremendous cheekbones and a brilliant figure. He wanted to _see_ her. Not for any sexual gratification, just to discover more about this strange person. He wanted to find out why the unfamiliar throb in his chest grew seemingly more powerful each time she smiled at him, complimented his intelligence or did anything remotely normal to most people, which no-one else did to him, apart from his mother.

He was still none the wiser as to why she chose him to work with him, and didn't know what to expect. Irene was very difficult to read, not like almost all of the people in his life, and he was unsure of her intentions, whether they were good, or her plans were to get on his side and humiliate him.

Sherlock then found himself taking away the fondness he had developed for her over the short time they had been working together and he began to resent her.

Unaware of the sudden change, Irene turned back to Sherlock to enquire how he was doing with the project. But Sherlock was packing up and logging off, attempting to quickly leave and get home. But Irene was quick on his tail, manoeuvring in front of him to block the doorway.

"What- where are you going, Sherlock?" She asked Sherlock, confused by how he was acting.

"Home," Sherlock snarled. "If you don't mind." He pushed past her and left her alone in the library. Wearily Irene sighed, feeling utterly deflated. She watched as Sherlock walked down the busy road. Once he looked back, and Irene was not there.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Mrs Holmes greeted her son warmly with a hug. Sherlock barely reciprocated, only wanting time alone to think. "School okay?" She asked as she did everyday, expecting nothing other than Sherlock's default "bearable" answer. She recieved something of a shock when Sherlock inadvertently told her he had had a good day. Sherlock retreated to his bedroom as his bemused mother hung up his coat and bags.

Slumping into his chair, Sherlock closed his eyes in thought. He had just spoke without thinking. Up until quite recently, he was having a good day. It wasn't the school part which he found better than usual, but the most part of the library time with Irene Adler. Unusually, he felt comfortable in her company. Unlike most of the time, he didn't have to explain everything which he said, as her intellect was considerably higher than is expected for their age. Similarly to Sherlock, both had aspects of their personalities which were misunderstood or simply not seen. With Sherlock, it was the amount of good he could accomplish with his observation abilities, and with Irene it was the range of her brainpower.

The possiblity of her having a plan to humiliate Sherlock seemed to diminish the more Sherlock looked into the situation, yet there was still a doubt in his mind. What if this was all part of her plan? Making herself unreadable, making him grow attached, then making him doubt himself, then finally demean him?

Sherlock's eyes jolted open, stopping the thoughts. His mind was like a canvas; at that moment splattered with different colours, but all were dark and most were dull. He had the power to clean that and make it blank, so he used it.

This one moment, he wanted to allow himself a break. Lying flat on his back, he once again shut his eyes and focused solely on Irene. Every part of her, he tried to recreate in his mind. Sherlock forgot the possible consequences of making a friendship, or more, with her, and granted himself the benefit of the doubt.

Sherlock lost track of time. He could have been laying there for five minutes or fifty, but the outcome was still the same: positive.

Was this a new challenge, or a risk?

"Well, if it is a challenge, then I rise to it," Sherlock said aloud. He looked down. Not the only thing rising, it seems.

"Shit." Sherlock looked contemptuously at his partial erection. He sighed shamefully. He knew it was only his body reacting to the abnormal pleasure of thinking of something which Sherlock had somewhat trained himself not to. Just his body, not his mind.

"Not my mind." Sherlock muttered, turning on his side to attempt to sleep. If Irene was going to stay in his life, he was going to have to adapt to that. It seemed now she had crept into his life, she definitely wasn't going to leave easily.


	3. Chapter 3

3:37am Saturday morning, and Irene's phone lights up and simultaneously chimes irritatingly happily for the time of morning. Drowsily she unlocked her phone, checking the message that she had just received, from an unknown number.

"If it's any consolation, your knowledge of tobacco is way above the average."

Irene sighed.

"And you got my number how?" She replied, somewhat slower than her usual typing pace.

Then came the simple, instant reply. "Facebook. It's displayed to everyone on your friends list."

Then arrived another text. "Your 'friends' do have very dull and predictable passwords."

"You didn't get mine? Has Sherlock Holmes hit a wall with his great knowledge?" Irene grinned to herself.

"It would require further research. Too much effort."

"Find anything interesting?" She enquired.

"Unsurprised to see you're openly bisexual. I thought as much." Read the text.

Irene wasn't entirely sure how to reply. She didn't want the brief conversation to end so abruptly. Whilst she was definitely not the first, and certainly not the last to say that Sherlock was a difficult person, but she found herself oddly craving more of him. Not sexually, although she could not deny that would be a welcome treat.

Irene then decided to just ask what was on her mind. "Why did you leave the library so suddenly?"

Meanwhile, Sherlock, sitting up on his desk in his room, still looking through Irene's profile, froze slightly. He didn't want to tell the truth as it would show him as vulnerable, and if he was right, it would just show her that it was all going as planned.

Although he felt as if her owed it to her to tell her the reason why he left.

"I was suspecting that you were only initiating a friendship between us only to humiliate me. After evaluating the situation, I concluded there were more pros than cons so I decided to make amends." He wrote quickly, and repeatedly re-read before sending.

Irene was shock, though not offended, upon receiving the text. She replied, " Do you think that I'm that sort of person?"

"I don't know. And that's why I'm confused."

Irene felt a slight blush rise as she read. She appreciated how it must have been uneasy for Sherlock to admit to feeling like he was, even after knowing him personally for such a short time. Which, she felt, almost added to the privileged feeling she was having. How he was talking to her as if they'd known one another for years, when it had barely been a week.

Another strange feeling was triggered by the fact of how Sherlock couldn't work her out. Sherlock knew he was fascinated by Irene, the aspects about her that he couldn't understand only made how intrigued he was stronger.

Irene pondered that maybe a part of Sherlock's confusion was how she was being nice to him, accepting and admiring his intelligence. And because Sherlock had never really had that, his inexperience, natural teenage insecurities and paranoia was holding him back.

Irene Adler was holding out a hand of friendship to Sherlock, and she was waiting for him to take it.

Sherlock had wanted to since they had become more closely acquainted, and he did as soon as he got a text simply saying, "It looks like there's not much I can do to convince you. Trust me."

He didn't need anymore convincing. Sherlock trusted Irene, and he was ready to explore her mind, like she was ready to explore his.

Irene was highly imaginative. Sometimes she did wonder about putting such creativity to better use than she already was, but today was not one of those days. Because with her imagination came fantasies. Using her mind to conjure up the perfect images to give her the most sexual gratification. Only this time, it was different, as Sherlock was the centre of her fantasy. Irene knew, and accepted, that by now she did want more than friendship from Sherlock. It was obvious that making him feel the same way would not be easy, what with his almost social hatred, yet she felt she had already achieved part of her goal just by befriending him.

The same Saturday morning in which their texting started is the same morning she awoke feeling incredibly aroused. It was not an unwelcome feeling as she remembered what had occurred only a few hours earlier.

Irene turned on her side on her double bed to be faced with the empty half. She closed her eyes and thought of the scene in front of her, the difference between dream and reality being Sherlock lying on his back, only just coming out of a deep sleep. He stretched his limbs, arching his back, and smiled when he saw Irene watching him.

When fantasy Irene received a lazy, open mouthed kiss, reality Irene began to blindly undress herself and slide her right hand down her body.

Irene had a strong oral fixation, and more than a few times she had found herself nearly staring at Sherlock's cupid's bow of lips and having a desire to feel them. And then, as her fantasy self traced the outline of his lips with her forefinger, Sherlock's mouth slowly parted, before the tip of his tongue reached and slowly massaged the tip of Irene's finger. She slipped it in further, until her first knuckle was blissfully enveloped in the warmth of Sherlock's mouth. He began to lightly suck, letting out a deep, satisfied moan whilst meeting his eyes with Irene's. This extracted a breathy sigh from Irene and her other self.

Sherlock continued to fellate Irene's finger under the gaze of her eyes.

Sherlock slid his hands gently up Irene's pyjama shirt, soothing his thumbs over the speed bumps of her ribs. He splayed his fingers and brushed her nipples, making Irene groan. Reluctantly, Irene removed her finger from Sherlock's mouth, not without a small whining noise from Sherlock, and a last strong suck followed by a quiet popping sound. Irene grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head then threw it aside. Her breasts were fully exposed, and she could see the full dilation of Sherlock's pupils. Sherlock lowered his head, tongue sharply flicking over Irene's erect nipples, teasing her. He slowly and carefully traced his tongue around the areola of her left nipple, but finally gave her relief by enclosing his lips around it. Irene hummed with pleasure and entangled her hands into Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock's hands made their way to Irene's knickers and swiftly removed them, leaving fantasy Irene completely naked, completely at Sherlock's mercy, and completely and utterly loving it.

Still bathed in pleasure but also frustration, Irene arched her hips, grinding herself against Sherlock's body, feeling a hard bulge brush her thigh as she did. Sherlock hastily stopped what he was doing and moaned loudly whilst Irene continued to tease Sherlock's erection. This didn't go on for much longer, as Sherlock had had enough of being the submissive half of the couple and kneeled up and started to undress himself.

Irene was so sucked in by her fantasy that she could have been dreaming. She was highly aroused and wasn't masturbating yet, because, she knew if she did, it would be over very quickly.

Irene was a voyeur, and she knew introducing the image of Sherlock pleasuring himself would drive her crazy. In her fantasy, Sherlock was kneeling before Irene, right hand touching himself, left hand against Irene's bedroom wall to brace himself.

"Sherlock," Irene murmured, and Sherlock looked up. Irene didn't need to say any more, because Sherlock lowered himself once again and got positioned between Irene's legs. He pressed a kiss to her pubic line, and continued to down until Irene spread her legs further, offering herself to Sherlock.

"I'm going to make you come." He growled.

He made Irene whimper by caressing her clit with his tongue, and kept on and intensified the strokes he made.

Sherlock smoothly used one of his long, slender fingers to enter Irene's body, which elicited a cry of shock and bliss from Irene. She tightened around him, wanting more. Sherlock obliged, adding another finger and pumping them quickly, with the cries of Irene's almost hoarse voice encouraging him.

Sherlock began touching himself again, in rhythm with his thrusts into Irene. Irene groaned when she saw then threw her head back, knowing she wouldn't last much longer. Sherlock was tugging hard and fast at himself when his body stiffened and bucked forward violently. He shouted Irene's name as he came, fingers twitching and heart racing.

Irene's legs had become wrapped around Sherlock's upper back and she pulled herself closer to him as her orgasm approached. She looked down at the exhausted Sherlock, breathing heavily in between tongue-fucking her, then she let herself go and ride on the waves of ecstasy. Her body jerked, then both her fantasy and reality self was coming, yelling "_I lov_-" but she stopped herself, the dream broke and it was back to the real world.

She lay in her bed, happily spent and breathless, thinking over the words she was just about to say.


	4. Chapter 4

The insecurity Sherlock had felt before he texted Irene had been cancelled out with an abnormal feeling of euphoria. With Irene, he had just reached a level of friendship entirely new to him. It was all very unnerving and different, but winning his emotional battle was his trust invested in Irene, which surged through Sherlock.

This was a new beginning for Sherlock, an opportunity to change. He believed that a cause towards him repressing his emotions to the extent that he had, was his loneliness that he had endured and became used to over so many years. Sherlock wanted to reverse that and be able to create and sustain proper relationships. Maybe only a few, but Sherlock recognised that if he continued to keep such distance from society, he would only end up very unhappy.

"I don't know," He sighed to himself. He pondered the thought that he was reading too much into the situation, as was his style.

Sherlock's head throbbed with pain. This was all very daunting. He needed a rest.

* * *

The next school week flew by with relative ease, made less difficult also with the regular science lessons. The other students, unobservant as always, failed to note Sherlock's increase in glee, and his and Irene's blossoming friendship. They sat alone together, discussing anything other than the project work. Sherlock deduced amusing things about their fellow classmates, at times leaving Irene in stitches. It was so simple and ordinary to everyone else, but to Sherlock it was a glimpse of the bright future.

Irene had no idea of the power she held in her hands regarding Sherlock's emotions, as one thing she may say or do could send Sherlock spiralling back in on himself, retreating into isolation once again.

But Irene had no intention of hurting Sherlock. She had her sights set on him, and she wasn't looking away.

On Thursday, they had Science last lesson. Irene arrived relatively early before break had even ended- and Sherlock was sat alone in the classroom, fiddling with his pen, staring into space and seemingly blank-minded. Though Sherlock was constantly thinking.

Irene took a moment to admire Sherlock. It didn't last long, for Sherlock sensed Irene's presence and looked over at her, smiling briefly and pulling up a chair next to him. Her heart ached at the gesture and she sat, deliberately leaning that _little_ bit closer to Sherlock, feigning interest in the work.

"Added anything?" Irene asked.

Sherlock shook his head, still looking like he was miles away. "No... can't seem to focus,"

"On?"

"Everything!" Sherlock exclaimed, slightly startling Miss Hooper, who was just walking into the room.

Irene raised an eyebrow. She saw a window of opportunity open, which she had been eagerly awaiting. She seized her chance.

"How about you come around my house tonight, if you can't concentrate? We can just focus on... getting to it," Irene said, not without a flirtatious edge.

Usually Sherlock's reply would have instantly been negative, but he was intrigued. Irene was difficult for him to figure out, so he couldn't ascertain whether she actually wanted to add in the extra work hours, or if she was inviting him for another reason. Sherlock nodded to Irene.

"Why not?" He said. Irene was overcome with a joy that was hard to hide. She ripped a page out of her book and wrote down her address in her neatly slanted handwriting.

"If you be there for eight, my parents will be out," She told him, handing the paper over. Immediately Sherlock knew where he would have to go, as the map in his mind planned his route.

* * *

Later that evening, despite his usual nonchalant attitude, Sherlock was in a slight state of panic. He had never visited a friend's house- not only because he'd never had that good a friendship- and he didn't know what to expect.

He was in a dilemma he hadn't experienced before: what to wear. Sherlock, whether he realised it or not, wanted to impress Irene.

He opted with a crisp white buttoned shirt- two undone, so as not to seem too formal- a black suit jacket and dark blue jeans.

Sherlock checked his watch. Seven forty-five. He slipped outside his house and lit a cigarette, but only managed a few drags before the butterflies of nerves resting in the pit of his stomach fluttered into life.

With some disappointment in himself, Sherlock stamped out his cigarette and set off to Irene's house.

* * *

Irene's parents' library was typically posh. Tens of wooden bookcases covered the walls, each neatly separated into sections: cookery books, travel guides; romances, horrors; Irene's childhood books, her current books. There were so many it was like a bookstore, and of course, was not complete without the leather-bound books sitting proudly on their own bookshelf.

In the middle of the room sat two leather armchairs and a coffee table. The room was dark but calming, and was mainly a chill-out area for Irene, as on numerous occasions as a child she slept in one of the armchairs after having a nightmare.

Now as a seventeen year old, she was setting up the room for her "date" with Sherlock. She filled two large wine glasses with Rioja, and placed their project work on the table, yet hoped it would go unnoticed.

Opening the front door to Sherlock was the most welcome sight Irene had experienced. There he stood, with a slight smirk drawn on his lips, pale face blushed by the chilly air, leading Irene to believe it was impossible to be more perfect. She leaned against the door frame, smiling.

"Good evening," Irene then gestured to the inside of the house. "Please, come in,"

Irene led Sherlock to the library, where he visibly relaxed.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Irene started, detecting Sherlock's new-found comfort with his surroundings. "I've always loved it in here, even if I didn't care for some of the books," She continued, picking up a novel at random and flicking through the pages.

Sherlock browsed through the shelves with interest, pulling out a book every so often, examining it before placing it back with intricate care.

"You can borrow some, if you'd like," Irene told him, sitting down in one of the armchairs.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, then picked a particular book he had been eyeing and held it under his arm. He sat in the other chair, not quite knowing what he should do. Irene held up his wine glass and raised her eyebrows in offering.

"Please," Sherlock said, taking a sip.

"Are you always so quiet?" Irene questioned softly. "What is it that's on your mind?"

Sherlock frowned. "I need to have everything known. In order. Only knowing part of something is as much use as knowing absolutely nothing. I _have _to have it worked out, put into perspective, work out the reasons so I can _see_. They may be challenges, but they're not fun ones," Sherlock exhaled heavily.

Irene inwardly celebrated. That moment, she knew her text had been accepted, that Irene was within Sherlock's trust, and his within her's.

"What is your challenge?" She said slowly in a near purr, rich with tones of red wine and seduction.

Sherlock looked deep into Irene's eyes. "You are. You are my challenge," He edged forward in his seat. "I can't explain you."

Irene arose, then perched on the arm of the chair Sherlock was seated in. She gently placed her hand upon his upper chest, pushing him back into the cushion, never removing her gaze from his.

"Challenges can't be fun?" She whispered into his ear, brushing her lips against his cheek. Sherlock's breathing hitched. "You really do need to... _extend_-" She emphasised. "-your knowledge."

Her eyes fixated on his full mouth with want. But Sherlock wasn't going to learn this easily. She brought her lips mere millimeters from his, remained that way for seconds which seemed like hours, before pulling away once again.

Irene got up from the chair. "It's getting late,"

Sherlock awoke from his daze. "Yes, yes it is..." He looked at the lady before him with a confusion. Irene took his hand and walked him to the front door.

Although, she was just about to say goodbye when temptation engulfed her. She held Sherlock by his collar and took his mouth. Sherlock dropped his now forgotten book as his hands gently cupped her cheeks and he was taken prisoner by Irene's delicious mouth, and her tongue, which was doing amazing things, Sherlock couldn't think, the feeling was so new and indescribably wonderful.

Irene had found which tricks she had pressed Sherlock's buttons and made him moan, voice as deep as a jaguar's growl. She nibbled his upper lip and the result was a twitch of Sherlock's body and a further increase of speed in his pounding heart. She corkscrewed her tongue around his and Sherlock had to pull back to catch his breath and compose himself.

They became entwined with one another for half an hour. They didn't move from where they were, just remained moulded to each other, wishing it could be that way for life.

Irene was astounded at Sherlock's emotional breakthrough (and how quickly he was picking up the art of great kissing!)- Sherlock didn't know what he was feeling. He was the happiest he had been since he could recall, aroused, and above all relieved. The tension he had suffered for weeks since he met Irene had lifted, it was liberating.

When the couple finally detached themselves from the other's mouths, they didn't say a word but instead they giggled.

"Someone's a quick learner," Irene toyed with the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. He brushed his thumb over her cheek sweetly.

"I need to go," Sherlock sighed regrettably- his mother would be growing concerned. Irene nodded.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," She picked up the discarded book and gave it to him. Sherlock thanked her, then began his walk home.

Irene watched him leave and turn back twice, and stayed watching for a long time after he was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock Holmes, a young man who had once been suffocating in a life of emotional absence, had been offered a lifeline, which had been accepted with little hesitation.

The reasoning for this was because the lifeline came in the form of Irene Adler, a lady with whom he was so alike to, especially in the brain department.

That young man was sat in the low light of his bedroom, cigarette clamped between his fingers, contemplating the recent changes of his life. Irene was... something else. When he awoke in the mornings and remembered her, the feelings she created in him. It felt incredibly strange. Irene overwhelmed Sherlock.

Sherlock liked to think that despite his young age, he was still a fully developed adult. Of course, his intelligence was way above that of most people, but there was still a lot more for him to discover and dissect. Sherlock, still being a teenager, also had the emotional underdevelopment and vulnerability of people his age. Although Sherlock was at a disadvantage with his emotional wellbeing, as he didn't really _have_ feelings. He partly understood them, the sacrifices and great lengths people went to save a loved one, yet his heart had never swelled at the thought of someone, nor had he ever felt love away from his family. Until now.

Irene pushed both Sherlock's intellectual and emotional boundaries, and whilst it unnerved him, it also made him feel electrified. Life sparked inside him and it was all down to Irene, his equal.

Sherlock brought the cigarette up to his lips, deeply inhaling. He held his breath for a few seconds then released with relief. Sherlock's eyes followed the wisps of smoke dance around the dim glow in his room.

The dread of school the next day did not haunt his brain as he stamped out the cigarette and readied himself for sleep.

* * *

Students of Sweyne school woke up to joy as thick snow blanketed the ground, and the radio announced the school's closure until it was safe to travel. Most of the students returned to their slumbers and enjoyed their free time off, apart from Sherlock and Irene. Both woke up to disappointment, but Irene had an idea.

Excitedly, she phoned Sherlock.

"I really wanted to see you today," She started, upon him answering.

"Likewise," Sherlock replied, more than slightly nervous. "It's a shame," He said quickly.

With a smile in her voice, Irene suggested, "We can still meet, you know. A bit of snow may be enough to bring the country to a halt but it can't stop me,"

Sherlock was liking the direction the plan was going. "How about Spencer Park? 45 minutes?"

Irene giggled girlishly, a sound which, Sherlock just discovered, tugged on his heart. "Brilliant. It's a date."

* * *

Irene had to brace the weather wearing three layers: a shirt, jacket and coat. She left for Spencer park earlier than necessary so as not be late and to catch a first glimpse of a beautifully rosy cheeked Sherlock.

Despite the fact Irene had arrived ahead of time, Sherlock was already sat, waiting for her. His eyes were glued to the screen of his phone, Irene could tell, in order to look busy and not be noticed by the other small groups of teenagers congregating around the park.

Irene brushed the snow off of the bench and cuddled closely up to Sherlock. If she only loved Winter for one reason it would be the excuse of snuggling to warm up.

"You're early," Irene commented.

"Took the words right out of my mouth," Sherlock grinned at her. He restlessly glanced back at the other teens. Irene sensed his apprehension and took his hand to lead him away.

They walked together on a long, overgrown footpath through untouched snow. It was quite secluded by low trees and high hedges, so the two were quite well hidden. Sometimes the couple strolled in silence, but comfortably, not awkwardly from lack of things to say. Soon the conversation came to their relationship.

"That one night at my house, I'm hoping that wasn't a one off," Irene began.

Sherlock looked taken aback. "Of course not!" He exclaimed.

Irene beamed up at him. She stopped walking, then held out both of her hands. Sherlock looked at her, quizzically. Irene sighed fondly and held his hands, locking their fingers together. Sherlock soothed his thumbs over Irene's forefingers before stepping closer to her. She tilted her head up and leaned towards his lips, not taking her eyes from his.

Irene's eyes only closed when their lips became intertwined in a kiss of passion and adoration. Although, Sherlock lazily watched Irene with heavy eyelids, feeling the fire in his belly grow stronger, flames so hot they could have melted the snow they were standing on.

Sherlock's tongue massaged Irene's mouth, which caused her to pull away, gasping, trying to recollect herself. Sherlock groaned and went to continue kissing her, however Irene lost her footing, then toppled over on her back. She laughed as she hit the soft ground and watched as Sherlock stumbled about, almost falling himself. He helped Irene to stand before wrapping his arms around her.

"You're freezing, come here," Sherlock said, taking off her coat and putting his own around her shoulders.

"Thank you," Irene said lovingly. Sherlock's reply was a close mouthed yet heartfelt kiss. Their kiss was deepening when Irene heard loud chatter from not far away.

"Quick," Irene whispered, once again holding his hand and running in the opposite direction, stifling laughter and trying not to fall.

* * *

Sherlock took Irene to his house, a modest place with one floor and small gardens. Their Sussex home had been larger but plagued with too many bad memories, so his mother had decided they didn't need such a big house for only her and Sherlock (and sometimes Mycroft).

Once inside, and once all cold and damp first layers had been removed, the pair settled down in front of the electric fire, sipping coffees whilst not really watching TV.

"You've got a nice house," Irene told Sherlock.

"It's what we need. Also, it had to be not too extravagantly priced so we wouldn't blow the whole inheritance in one go, then have nothing else to help us survive,"

"Inheritance?"

"My father committed suicide about five years ago," Sherlock answered, not meeting her eyes. Irene was suddenly sorrowful, she soothingly rubbed her hand on Sherlock's back. "It's fine," Sherlock said with sincerity. "I only knew him when he was depressed, not the real him," He swallowed hard. "He must have had a miserable fucking life. I couldn't help him."

"That's the thing, Sherlock. Some people in that situation can't be helped. There's the medication and therapy, but those aren't always helpful to each person," Irene attempted at reassurance.

Sherlock studied her. "That sounds like a voice from experience,"

Smiling sadly, Irene said, "I had therapy for a while. Anxieties. In my case, it was ultimately rewarding. There were occasions where it didn't really help, but you need to take away things from where it _does_ help so you can get better,"

Sherlock nodded and smiled thankfully. He brought his arm around her for a hug.

"Promise me one thing, you do not feel guilty. Okay?"

"I promise." Said Sherlock completely truthfully.

* * *

Over the next hour of passionate kissing, cuddling and (some) body grinding, Sherlock had been facing a growing problem of the groin area. He had - for want of a better phrase - felt it coming, but had no clue how to proceed in getting rid of the darned thing with minimal embarrassment.

Sherlock took the opportunity when Irene's hand was making another of its journeys down his torso to quickly stop kissing and excuse himself to the bathroom.

Once he was locked in and in his own privacy, Sherlock groaned irritably at stupid bodily reactions. He looked hesitantly down at his erection. He sighed. Still there. There was no easily hiding _that_.

With speed, Sherlock unfastened his trousers and took himself in his hand. He stopped a moan from escaping his lips, trying to focus only on keeping flushed cheeks and sweaty parts to a minimum. Not focusing on Irene, her soft breasts and tender kiss...

Sherlock took his hand away in an instant and berated himself. It was pointless even trying. He attempted to hide and rearrange his erection in a way that it couldn't be seen from every single angle, and just hoped Irene wouldn't notice.

He flushed the toilet, to go with his excuse, and washed his hands.

When Sherlock returned downstairs, Irene was smirking.

"I like the toilet chain trick, by the way," She chuckled.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, feigning confusion.

"I could feel it, Sherlock," She told him, rising from where she was sitting to walk over to him. "Perhaps I could...?" Irene extended her hand towards his crotch but Sherlock stopped her.

"Irene, I do really want to, I'm just not ready," Irene could tell Sherlock was genuine, his eyes were filled with desire. She supposed he had to physically prepare himself as well as mentally.

"I understand," She said, cupping his face in her hands and leaning up to give him a quick peck on the lips.

* * *

Sherlock always thought of that day as one of the happiest in his life. He was in a constant state of smiling - when he wasn't kissing - and he _felt_. Not strong emotions suddenly coming to the fore after years of repression, but that mild ache in his heart, sometimes with a twinge to remind you it's still there, and yes, you're still feeling like this.

"Have you ever been in love?" Sherlock had asked Irene, out of nowhere.

Not at all rueful, Irene had said, "No. I thought I'd been in love, but if I really had been, we wouldn't be here now, would we?" She looked at him fondly. "Love, I believe it can only be with the person who you're truly meant to be with. You can think it's love, you can lie to yourself for years, but when it's real, you know."

Irene could see Sherlock was struggling with such an unknown subject.

"How do you know?"

"There's that feeling in your chest that you get, one so different from anything else before. Your nerves go into overdrive. It's difficult to eat, sometimes sleep. It sounds like symptoms of an illness but it's... wonderful. They're always there, in the back of your mind, and it doesn't matter because you can either live to only achieve the highest or live to love. But living for love _is_ achieving, living for someone else who loves you and wants you to be happy. They'll do anything for you because they love you, and you love them. The thing with true love is that you can have your cake and eat it."

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock said, "Are those the words of someone who's never been in love?"

Irene had realised. That speech was from her heart, it was almost spoken without thinking.

"I suppose not," She wound her arms around him in a close embrace. "Do you think you can work out who I was talking about?" She murmured, her eyes flicking back and forth between his eyes and mouth.

"Mmm, I have a faint idea," Sherlock replied, smirking, and their mouths connected.

Sherlock was amazed. This was normal! Over a fortnight of worry, thinking he was ill or that there was something wrong with his head, and it was only because his heart had started beating for Irene. It was all for her. Sherlock's brain had caught up with his heart and it was indescribably relieving, also, above all, lovely.

He couldn't say it yet, but he knew it. Sherlock was in love, and what only made it better is that the feeling was most definitely mutual.


	6. Chapter 6

The snow had fully cleared off the pavements and roads within three days, so most students were back in school by Thursday as the slacker's "My road is a death trap" excuse was no longer valid.

The science project was due in, and Sherlock had been adding a few hundred words each night just so it didn't all build up and he had to complete it the night before. He had tried to do the project to the best of his ability and the highest quality, but Irene had been distracting him. Although, aware that it would still be the best in the class, Sherlock didn't let this bother him.

On Thursday's science lesson Sherlock and Irene watched as the other pairs were called up to hand their projects in, and as nearly half came up with some sorry excuse: "I left it at home" and "It's not quite finished" being the main ones. Then, Mrs Hooper, perhaps too kind for her own good, allowed the students another day to bring the work in as opposed to giving them an immediate detention.

"Irene and Sherlock?" Mrs Hooper called out. A few students who had paid no attention over the past few weeks looked up from their work, wearing an expression of confusion.

One said, "What's she doing with _him_?"

Sherlock handed his and Irene's project to their teacher. Mrs Hooper quickly looked over each page of the work with a slight grin on her face. She admired the diagrams sketched by Sherlock and annotations made in what she recognised as Irene's handwriting.

"This looks very impressive," Mrs Hooper told the couple. "You two must work very well together," Sherlock and Irene smiled subtly, exchanging glances. "I'm glad someone made the effort." Mrs Hooper said quietly.

"Thanks, ma'am," They both replied, then returned to their seats. When sat, the two started chuckling.

"We took about an hour on that," Irene whispered, recalling the time in the library, half of which was spent waiting for the computer to load.

"Half an hour still would have been more than sufficient," Sherlock replied.

"Oh, definitely," Grinned Irene. "We just... work so well together," She quoted Mrs Hooper in a flirtatious tone, leaning closer to Sherlock. His breath hitched, and he looked around the classroom to check if anyone had noticed their proximity and the whispering. Luckily, they had remained oblivious.

Near the end of the lesson, Irene had reached under the table and gently taken Sherlock's hand in her's. It was such a normal part of other couples' lives, yet to Sherlock and Irene, who had decided to keep their relationship secret from school, that simple touch became as intimate as a kiss.

Sherlock realised Irene had positioned herself in such a way so that their interlocked fingers couldn't be seen, but that didn't stop Sherlock's heart beating faster from risk of being discovered. Yet that feeling didn't make Sherlock want to pull his hand away, it somehow made him feel fonder of Irene. He was aware of every part of his body touching Irene's, how their thighs were pressed against each other. How when either of them adjusted their legs and they were apart for a second, the other felt an unbearable cold and instantly sought out their body heat once again.

Not looking at one another, Sherlock squeezed Irene's hand, and Irene responded by tickling Sherlock's palm with her thumb. She repeated this, her nail ever so lightly touching his skin in random patterns, until only she noticed the tiniest of shivers shoot up Sherlock's spine. He looked over at Irene with want and Irene smirked.

"Okay, class, you can pack up now," Mrs Hooper called out, and the class began stuffing their bags with books then putting on their coats for the walk home. Irene was having difficulty with her fiddly coat collar, so Sherlock softly murmured, "Here," and turned it the correct way.

"Thank you," Irene said. Following this, Sherlock ran his hands down Irene's arms, and whispered back.

"You're welcome." It was only afterwards that they released their lack of subtlety, as they were so 'in the moment', and quickly snapped out of their daze.

But, Mrs Hooper had noticed. Over the course of the lesson she had seen the look in their eyes as they talked, a look that couldn't be mistaken: love. She'd watched as they'd hastily stopped their movements and acted normal. Mrs Hooper wondered if they were as fond of each other as they appeared, if they even realised.

These thoughts did not come to her without worry. She cared for Sherlock, she didn't want him to get hurt. If it didn't work out well, then Mrs Hooper knew it would only send Sherlock into a worse state than he was in before.

She watched as Sherlock and Irene lingered until every other student had left the classroom so they could go, walking closely together with their fingers brushing every now and then.

* * *

Later that day, over dinner, Sherlock's mother brought up a conversational topic which was music to Sherlock's ears.

"Sherlock, dear, I've managed to book that little cottage in Devon for the week after the next," She informed him. "We can get a train from London Victoria to Exeter, making a couple of changes. Then from Exeter there's a train straight to Beer," His mother smiled. "It's cheaper, too, Mycroft isn't coming along. Which is a relief for you, not having to share a room again,"

Sherlock stopped eating and looked up at his mum. "He isn't?" A plan formed in his head. "Mum, you know how you tell me that all I need is one good friend? Just a solid, loyal friend who can put up with me?" She wiped her mouth and nodded. "Well... I think I've found that person,"

Sherlock's mother beamed at her son, an expression of happiness with an undertone of surprise. She had noticed Sherlock's recent change. His general mood had significantly improved.

"Who is this mystery saint?" She asked. Sherlock ducked his head a little, and a light tinge of pink shaded his cheeks. His mother looked on affectionately.

"Her name's Irene," He said. "And, I was wondering, that perhaps, she could come to Devon with us?" Sherlock didn't beat around the bush.

His mum furrowed her brow, weighing up the situation. Yet she needed to find out more about this girl.

"Do you like her?" She questioned.

Sherlock frowned. "Obviously, I do,"

She sighed. Talking to Sherlock could be very trying at times.

"No, I mean, do you _like _her? Not only in a friend sense, but more,"

"I'm not entirely certain," He admitted. "It's different to anything else I've felt before, I don't... understand it," Sherlock finished quickly.

His mother reached across the dinner table and put her hands on his shoulders.

"If this is how you feel, then I don't know how I could say no. If Irene's all she's cracked up to be-"

"Which she is," Sherlock added.

"I can't deprive you of that happiness." She pulled her son into a hug, which he gratefully returned.

* * *

On Friday, Sherlock had organised to meet Irene in the school library at second break. She was four minutes late when she arrived.

"Sorry, Sherlock, Galloway kept us behind because someone threw a pencil,"

"It's fine," Sherlock said. "I have an offer for you,"

Irene raised an eyebrow. "Go ahead,"

"Would you like to go to Devon with me- well, me and my mum, in two weeks, for half term? We'd get the train there and back,"

Irene was speechless. She didn't know what she was expecting Sherlock to say, but it definitely wasn't _that._

"Isn't it a bit early in the year for seaside holidays?" She had to ask.

"I know it seems odd, but my mum doesn't enjoy going abroad, plus we like the chilly air, the cosy nights, how silent the town is," He explained with enthusiasm.

"I suppose, also, with the weather you know what you're getting. No promises of sunshine, then only to be disappointed with the Great British weather!"

Sherlock smiled. "Exactly," He shifted on his feet. "You've got a week to think about it, so... you know," He trailed off, unsure of how to continue.

Irene thought for a short while. "My answer will be yes," She said, the promise in her voice. "I'll clear it with my parents."

The school bell sounded a few times, signalling the end of break. Irene winked and left. Sherlock watched the slight sway of her hips as she walked away. This was the start, he thought.

* * *

The last week of term went by excruciatingly slowly. Each hour seemed to drag, every minute felt twice as long. The day after Sherlock had asked Irene to go on holiday with him, she had excitedly called him to share to good news that, following only a little convincing, Irene's parents had agreed.

When the end of the week finally rolled around, Sherlock and Irene's brains and thoughts were clouded by the anticipation of the upcoming week. Both were finding it difficult to sleep. To pass the time Irene checked through her bag to make sure she had everything she needed, although she doubted anything had been forgotten anything as all she had packed was clothes and books. Other entertainment was unneccessary when you're with Sherlock all day, all week.

Irene chose to read until she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer.

It was 8 am Saturday morning, chilly and foggy. Yet no cold could pierce the heat Sherlock was feeling within his entire body. His mother was purchasing the train tickets when the car carrying Irene and her parents pulled up. All three got out, and her father took Irene's bag out of the car then wheeled it inside the train station for her. Sherlock's mum saw them approaching and smiled.

"Hello," She said, extending her hand to Irene's parents. "I'm Mary, here's Sherlock,"

The two shook her hand. "Nice to meet you both. I'm Luke, this is my wife, Antonia," Sherlock's father introduced them, and Antonia smiled.

"Hello, Irene," Mary greeted warmly. "The train's here in about five minutes, we should probably get moving,"

"Oh, okay, just give me a minute," Irene said politely.

Sherlock took his and his mother's luggage, wheeling them to the platform where he awaited the train and for Irene to finish her goodbyes. He took a moment to let what was happening sink in, as he could never have foreseen the recent turn his life had taken. Before, Sherlock's main mindset regarding his life (which was basically school) was "Just get through this." He ensured to always remind himself that his time in school would soon be over, so then he could leave and live for himself. Although the idea of college and university attracted him, he longed for the freedom that was a life away from being dictated to by people not nearly as intelligent as him.

Sherlock knew he wouldn't get a 'job' as such- the idea of being employed in something like retail repelled him- instead he wanted to be involved in science or detective work.

Yet now he had someone to go through those experiences with. That knowledge created a feeling in him almost like hope. Hope that no matter what did happen, he had Irene, who made him happy and possibly was the reason he kept on going.

"It's the weather for it," Irene had appeared next to Sherlock, looking out among the eerie low hanging fog.

"There's bright sun and blue skies in Devon," Sherlock commented.

"There better bloody be,"

Sherlock grinned. A conversation between two English folk would be incomplete without the topic of the damn weather.

Sherlock's mum joined the two on the platform.

"Your tickets," She handed them out.

Irene thanked her. "You should have really let me pay, though," She felt some guilt as she realised the financial differences between her family's and Sherlock's.

"Oh, nonsense," Mary reassured with a smile. She was tempted to say how her befriending Sherlock and making him so happy was 'payment' enough, but decided on saving him the embarrassment.

Upon the train arriving, the group sat with Sherlock's mother on one side, and Sherlock with Irene seated opposite. While Mary took to her book for entertainment, Irene shifted closer to Sherlock, squeezing her hand in between his back and the seat then gripped his waist. Sherlock adjusted so that not too much weight would be resting on Irene's arm, although kept enough contact for her body heat to still feel as if it was burning through his clothes and skin. He gave a light kiss to the top of Irene's head which was resting on his shoulder. Although it felt so normal now, the intimacy they shared was still pulse raising.

In an attempt to calm himself, Sherlock controlled his breathing and focused on the blurred images passing by as the train rushed on. But the moments of relaxation were short lived, because Irene had slipped her hand under Sherlock's shirt, extracting a gasp from him. She pressed her palm onto his warm flesh, then Sherlock pushed himself back against the contact. With her nails, she very lightly traced her name repeatedly on Sherlock, as if claiming him- "mine."

Sherlock recognised the name being written on his skin and locked eyes with Irene. In that moment, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to pin Irene down and just _take_ her. And Irene would have no complaints as she was imagining very much the same thing.

Irene kissed Sherlock fully on his Cupid's bow lips, her tongue flicking in his mouth but only teasing.

Against his lips, she seductively whispered, "This will be one hell of a week."

* * *

Irene had researched pictures of the village of Beer before the holiday, but it was even more lovely in person. The narrow main street, wide enough for only one car at a time, presented a beautiful symmetry; each side had an eye catching flower display with a small fountain structure.

Living in a big city, the countryside can sometimes be forgotten. Irene usually had holidays abroad, yet she still stood in awe of British scenery, and as she took in the view of Beer's beach from her and Sherlock's bedroom, that was all the more apparent.

Sherlock had twisted her round, overcome with need. He had been waiting a week and an excruciating few hours of having her with him yet not being able to act on his desires. He cupped Irene's face and stroked her cheeks in a soothing circular motion with his thumbs. Sherlock couldn't hold on. He firmly pressed his lips to hers and his mind blanked out save for the feeling of ecstasy beating within his veins.

"I can't wait any more," He said after a sharp intake of breath. "I need..." Sherlock was hesitant, this was difficult for him. He sat on the end of one of the twin beds, Irene kneeling in front of him.

"What do you need?" She quietly asked him and placed her hands on his knees, gradually edging them further up his legs.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut with concentration of stopping his brain and body going into overload.

"You, I need you!" Sherlock finally gasped. Irene's resulting smile would have been bright enough to light the whole house.

"You've got me," She brushed her fingertips against his crotch. It was such minute contact yet was amplified by Sherlock's inexperience and how worked up he already was. She fully put her hand on his slowly hardening bulge, and oh, he felt _so _good. Her mind was racing with the thoughts of what she wanted to do to him.

Sherlock simply stared, speechless, unable to move, as he watched Irene lower her head and mouth the shape of his cock through his jeans. Sherlock felt like he was going to burst with arousal, and he couldn't control the cry of pleasure and shock he made. He nearly came right then.

Irene looked up at him and waited for his eye contact. "I just need to ready myself a little,"

Sherlock's eyes showed helplessness. "What?"

"Don't worry," Irene stood and kissed him. "This will only help." She took her bag into their small en suite bathroom, closing the door behind her. While Sherlock, with shaky breathing, prepared for what potentially could be one of the biggest moments in his life.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock prepared himself for what he would next be facing. Irene had been in the bathroom for just under five minutes and he was becoming very agitated. He'd pushed the twin beds together to create a make-shift double bed so that he and Irene could stay as close together as they could, even in their slumbers. Although sleeping was the last thing on Sherlock's mind as he fidgeted about on his back, sweat lightly lining his forehead.

"Irene?" He called, wincing after hearing how croaky his voice was. From within the bathroom, Irene grinned. She quietly opened the door, but any attempt at being sneaky was useless as Sherlock's senses were heightened and immediately sat up at the sound of the lock clicking.

Irene emerged dressed in a white robe, her perfect hair hanging neatly by her shoulders. Sherlock pulled himself back to sit on the end of the bed once again.

Irene hooked her thumbs behind the belt of the robe, pulling it loose. She took hold of Sherlock's wrists and placed each of his hands under the robe and on her shoulders. Sherlock got the message and slid the material off of her body, and he had to sit back a little to admire the woman before him. Irene was wearing black lace lingerie which seemed absolutely perfect for her- and for Sherlock, too.

"Oh my... Irene," He gulped hard, pulling her down into a deep kiss whilst falling back onto the bed so that she lay on top of him. Sherlock's hands were at either side of her head as his tongue played with hers and he was grinding his hips against her body. Irene sat up so she was straddling Sherlock's lower stomach.

Reaching behind her back, she never took her eyes off of his, relishing in every moment she had of admiring his full blown pupils. She removed her bra, exposing her breasts and Sherlock's desire. Due to his complete lack of knowledge and experience in these situations, he was not only feeling nervous but also coy- he wanted to touch Irene yet was anxious of his approach. He propped himself up against the headboard and in his eye line, was instantly faced with Irene's breasts.

"Touch me," Irene breathed, realising how intimidating it must be for Sherlock. His hands rose to her chest and he cupped her breasts. He was surprised at how good the weight felt in his hands as he squeezed gently, also at the amount of pleasure he was getting from just touching Irene.

"Are you okay?" Irene asked.

"Better than ever," Sherlock said, completely truthfully, though he felt abnormally nervous.

Irene eased herself down Sherlock's body, lips slightly brushing his skin, and came to a halt when her mouth reached his boxer shorts. Yet it was only a small pause as temptation overthrew her urge to tease. She repeated her previous action of feeling Sherlock's erection through the material, the lustful noises he was making only encouraging Irene while she tenderly pressed a kiss on him.

Sherlock stopped himself just as the word "Please" was escaping him in a hoarse tone. It may be his first time, and he may be aching to finish beyond his own belief, but begging was not an option. Yet.

Irene brushed her fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's boxers, skimming her fingertips along his pubic hair. Sherlock was aware of every single point of contact between the couple, wanting to engrave all he possibly could into his memory. Irene finally removed the underwear from his body, exposing him fully naked.

In no way was Sherlock a self conscious person, for he couldn't care less what people thought of his appearance, although he had expected to be more nervous of his nudity. With Irene it felt natural, almost... meant to be. Irene kissed around his hip bones while his strong and very pleasant natural scent made her feel light-headed. She gripped the base of Sherlock's cock loosely in her right hand, working it slowly up and down, warming Sherlock up for what was to happen next so as not to overwhelm him. The smoothness of Irene's hand caused Sherlock to groan through gritted teeth. She began to flick her wrist each time when she reached the head, and Sherlock edged himself closer to his lover.

After one or two minutes of an excruciatingly slow rhythm, Irene ran her tongue along a protruding vein on the side of his cock. Sherlock panted, digging his finger nails into the mattress and drawing his knees up. But his legs felt strained so he fell back flat and brought up his sweaty palms to cover his face.

Irene took just the head in her mouth then pressed her tongue flat against it to savour his taste. Sherlock craved more and nearly thrusted into the warmth of Irene's mouth- he managed to retain some self control. She inched more of Sherlock into her mouth, relaxing her muscles and natural reactions to allow his thick length to almost breach her throat. She hollowed her cheeks around him, sucking softly.

"Oh... f-fuck!" Sherlock moaned whilst his back arched off of the bed, he was unable to stay still.

"Mmmm," Irene hummed with her mouth full. Sherlock looked down at her pleasuring him, and Irene, sensing this, opened her eyes up at him so the two locked heated gazes. Keeping with the eye contact, dragged herself off the tip of Sherlock's cock and created an obscene 'pop' noise, which made his heart skip.

Irene started to tug at him, a feeling which held more pleasure than when Sherlock had ever touched himself. She lapped her tongue at his cock's underside, occasionally kissing while her hand slid from base to tip, wanting to ease Sherlock into an intense climax.

Sherlock could feel the tension building up deep inside of him, the heat and wetness of Irene's mouth had once again enveloped his throbbing cock.

"Irene!" He called when he neared the edge, and threaded his fingers into her hair, to give him the feeling, if only the illusion of being dominant.

"Come for me," Irene whispered to him. She took him in fully, swirling her tongue around his cock whilst bobbing her head. Sherlock's moans intensified as his usually 100 miles per hour brain attempted to catch up with the speed his body was going. He was in no state to think of what was happening then evaluate every detail like he did usually (mostly without realising this force of habit). For once, possibly the first time in his memory, he was turning his mind off. That was once an option which once would have not even been considered with Sherlock. He knew, now, that he was in safe hands.

Back to the present time, where Irene was humming with her mouth around Sherlock: just enough of a little push to send Sherlock spiralling towards his orgasm. His hips thrusted up from where they rested, his knees buckled and collapsed the moment he came, Irene swallowing around him. Sherlock's hand clamped around his mouth to muffle his near scream.

Irene got to her knees and sat back on her heels. She viewed over the young man lying in front of her, whose cheeks were tinted light pink and hitched breathing was gradually stabilising. She slowly wiped her lips with the back of her hand, which Sherlock found strangely erotic though was too exhausted to react.

She hooked her bra back on, snapping the straps into place before crawling over to embrace her lover, arm thrown over his chest which had a light dusting of dark hair.

"How are you?" She softly asked, lazily kissing his neck.

"I... that was..." His voice changed to a deep, incomprehensible grumble. Irene chuckled. Sherlock was struggling to think, becoming frustrated at how affected his brain was. He was like a malfunctioning robot.

"Don't think," Advised Irene, knowing 'that look' on his face. "Please, Sherlock. Trust me. You don't need that mind of yours working so hard when you're with me. I'm not asking you to change just... switch off. Even just a bit,"

Nodding, Sherlock faced her. "I can try."

Irene covered their bodies with the duvet, snuggling up close. Sherlock placed a kiss to the top of her head. He felt a very strong urge to tell her something- three little words that he thought were true, he hoped were an accurate portrayal of his emotions. But he didn't know as he had never experienced this before, and it was too soon. He would just have to wait it out for the time being.

Their contentment reaching levels not known by them, they silently fell into sleep.


End file.
